


A Man Without a Moustache is a Man Without a Soul

by cissues



Category: Carry On Series - Rainbow Rowell, Simon Snow & Related Fandoms
Genre: Chubby Simon Snow, Depression, Drabble, Established Relationship, M/M, POV Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch, Post-Book 1: Carry On, Pre-Book 2: Wayward Son, Sort of a character study, moustaches
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-10
Updated: 2021-02-10
Packaged: 2021-03-16 23:47:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,786
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29340801
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cissues/pseuds/cissues
Summary: “What onEarthhave you done to your face, Snow?” I ask, noting how droll my voice sounds despite the horror staring back at me from Snow’s lip. I can’t help it, he’sgrinning. He has a joy to his face that I haven’t seen the likes of in weeks, maybemonthsand it makes my heart flutter at the sight of it.“Dead wicked, innit?” He asks in a rush of breath, scrambling back into the bathroom to gawp at himself in the mirror, smiling like a loon. I am so, exceptionally weak. I feel my lips quirk as I push myself off of the makeshift dining room chair, making my way over to the doorway to get a better look.The moustache is… well, it’s quite bad.
Relationships: Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch/Simon Snow
Comments: 14
Kudos: 49





	A Man Without a Moustache is a Man Without a Soul

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote half of this in my head as I was falling asleep last night because I can't help but project my own terrible depressive decisions onto Simon (yes, I too have a sad moustache and my lovely boyfriend is also humoring me about it).
> 
> As a chubby, depressive gay boy, I adore the idea of Simon developing a bit of a gut and softness while drinking and being sad on the couch and I think Baz would like it very much! I also get very tired of seeing twinky Simon all over the place, even if that is how he's illustrated on the book covers.
> 
> This is a very silly little drabble and not too thought out but I'm in the middle of writing a longer, sadder snowbaz fic and I'm a little stuck with it so I wrote this! It's set sort of between the end of Carry On and the beginning of Wayward Son. I also didn't really know how to end it since really the only idea I had was lovingly describing Simon's bod and moustache and I didn't know what else to write besides that, but it is what it is.
> 
> Also, I am American. I try to write as accurately British as possible when doing first person perspectives of these boys but I do make mistakes so sorry if there's any that grate on you!

**BAZ**

Simon Snow will be the end of me.

Of course, I am long past the point of assuming he’ll slay me, but between his sword and dying from embarrassment at being seen with him in public… I am not entirely sure which is worse.

Steam plumes around him as he exits the bathroom and creates a dramatic silhouette. From the chin down he looks… he looks _good_. I have been on the receiving end of enough griping about his physique to know that Snow is not particularly proud of the body he’s been growing into. Far from the days of summer starvation via boys homes rations and school years spent running himself ragged on missions, only snagging sustenance when he had the chance. He hasn’t been doing much running lately, not at all, and he certainly isn’t starving any longer. His therapist, apparently, has informed him that he-- the saviour of the whole of the World of Mages-- _deserves_ this respite. That he shouldn’t feel ashamed for spending days on the couch, that he’s still _adjusting_ and needs time to figure out how to live in a world that is not constantly threatening his life. Bunce thinks he should at least try jogging. I disagree.

Vehemently.

Snow has gone soft around the middle, his stomach hanging slightly over the edge of the towel wrapped around his hips. The ciders haven’t helped, giving him something of a beer gut, and hair has begun to dust itself in the space below his navel. His pectoral muscles have gone a bit round and pair well with his meatier arms. His thighs, as well-- _Crowley_ , his _thighs_ \-- are thick and strong and _soft_.

He looks, in my opinion, completely divine. Bunce can insist on jogging all she likes, but she is not the one holding Snow in the night, and I quite enjoy the feeling of his much rounder, supple arse pressed against me, thank you very much.

He looks… _healthier_ , as well. Despite the drink and the inactivity, he appears to be growing into a body that he was always meant to have. Snow is built for muscle and girth, but his disastrous and borderline abusive upbringing never allowed him to develop the way I believe his body was always meant to. He’s soft, but strong. Thick with solid muscle underneath a delightful layer of fat. It’s _lovely_.

That is to say, everything below the chin and above the nose is quite lovely and I allow myself a moment of appreciation before being forced to address the hideous situation Snow has forced me into. He walks around shirtless most of the time now-- says it’s easier than having to constantly buy new shirts once his wings have ripped holes in all his good ones-- but he is not usually so bold as to leave the bathroom in nothing but a towel. Bunce is gone, however, at uni classes and I have the unique and exciting privilege of seeing a bit more of Simon Snow than even his closest friend.

Which means, as well, I am in charge of sorting out this blasted mess.

“What on _Earth_ have you done to your face, Snow?” I ask, noting how droll my voice sounds despite the horror staring back at me from Snow’s lip. I can’t help it, he’s _grinning_. He has a joy to his face that I haven’t seen the likes of in weeks, maybe _months_ and it makes my heart flutter at the sight of it.

“Dead wicked, innit?” He asks in a rush of breath, scrambling back into the bathroom to gawp at himself in the mirror, smiling like a loon. I am so, exceptionally weak. I feel my lips quirk as I push myself off of the makeshift dining room chair, making my way over to the doorway to get a better look.

The moustache is… well, it’s quite bad.

I remember Snow speaking reverently about the Mage’s moustache once upon a time and that keeps me from being outright cruel about it. Back at Watford, Snow had always been whinging about his lack of facial hair, waxing poetic about the Mage’s poor excuse of it. 

The inactivity and lack of enthusiasm for life has kept Snow from shaving for the better part of two weeks. The stubble he’d accumulated hadn’t been awful. I’d found myself enjoying the scrape of it against my jaw the few times we’ve kissed and in a pathetic sort of moment I’d imagined that the feel of it against my thighs might be rather exciting. I knew the cause of it was not something to be celebrated, but it hadn’t been a _bad_ look on him. If the circumstances were different, less tragic, less of a symptom of depression, I would have been more enthusiastic about it.

Now, though, Snow is grinning at himself in the mirror, smoothing the golden hair above his lip and twisting his mouth around to make it move about. It isn’t thick and is more reminiscent of a prepubescent attempt at maturity, but his confidence his palpable.

“It is certainly a _look_ ,” I drawl, and he eyes me through the mirror (he is _delectable_ , all soft muscle and reddened tawny skin), and frowns.

“You hate it,” he says, voice going a bit stale. My heart skips as I watch the beginnings of the old malaise creep onto his face. Well, it’s not as if I’ve never lied to him.

I feel my expression grow tender as I slip further into the bathroom. He turns towards me, one hand bracing himself against the sink and the other balled into a fist at his side. His cheeks are ruddy with what I assume to be embarrassment and his eyes are averted. He has this defeated sort of expression that breaks my heart.

Pressing my fingers against his jaw, I ease his face back towards mine and reach up to stroke the overgrown hair from his face, pushing it back and scratching my nails against his scalp. He’s still frowning, but I know he likes this and his eyes flutter at the sensation.

“I think you are beautiful,” I say, quiet and secret (though it has never been one), “and you look devilishly handsome with it. Debonair, even. Like a chavvy James Bond.”

He scrunches up his nose at that, but the sparkle has returned to his eyes.

“James Bond didn’t have a moustache,” he argues, still doubtful of my honesty and likely feeling confrontational. Good, I like him confrontational. It’s preferable to the passive resignation he’s been stewing in.

“Well, perhaps he ought to,” I counter, running my thumb along his upper lip. It’s truly ghastly, all sorts of different colours to the hair-- his usual bronze, a few smatterings of blond, an odd brown hair or two-- and it’s sparse enough that, from a distance, it looks smudgy. However, the smile that breaks over Snow’s face lights the rest of him up delightfully. He turns his head, breaking my grip, to peer at himself again. I’ve spelled his wings off to minimise the damage done to his and Bunce’s ridiculously small bathroom during his shower, and his tail lifts behind him, the end of it flicking about like a cat’s would. He puffs his chest out a bit, furrowing his eyebrows at himself. He does look handsome, despite it. He always does. At this point (especially now) I do not believe there is anything he could do to prevent him from being so.

When I lean down to kiss him, I’m delighted when he turns his face up to meet me halfway. Our kisses have become an unfortunately rare, one sided ordeal as of late, so much so that I’ve been finding it difficult to initiate anything at all for fear that I’m pushing a silent boundary that he is too defeated to voice. Now, though… now he wraps a thick, strong arm around my shoulders, his other hand settling at my hip, and he kisses me back-- _fervently_ \-- and I have no choice but to hold on to him and succumb.

Bunce arrived home a few hours later, not too long after the kissing had stopped. Thankfully, Snow had deigned to dress himself (including a shirt, since my spell for his wings seemed to be holding) and we had settled into a comfortable cuddle on the couch, fingers interlaced.

Of course, Bunce had immediately noticed the intimacy that has been absent between us for months and was already smiling by the time Snow turned his head towards her in greeting. I was impressed by her ability to freeze her expression as I watched her zero in on the moustache. I shook my head infinitesimally from behind Snow and she seemed to catch on quick. She softened further at the way Snow preened at her compliments and his pleased grin remained for minutes afterwards.

I know that he is not “fixed”. I know that a _moustache_ was not the solution to his depressive episode all along, but the momentary relief and distraction that it’s given him is enough to give me hope that he might be finding ways to claw himself out.

After a few days, he will end up shaving it after being reminded of the Mage, and he will spend days that bleed into weeks sitting on the couch with glazed eyes and a cider clutched in his fingers. He won’t look at me and I will stop kissing him again, for some time. Eventually, he will find another distraction, something else that pulls his attention away from the television and he will smile again and I will kiss him and he will kiss back until he falls back into another episode. It will be slow going, until Bunce drags us to America and that will be another distraction, the longest he will have surfaced for nearly a year. Of course, it will be more of a nightmare than a holiday, but that is a story for a different time.

For now, Snow settles against me, blasted moustache tickling my neck where he kisses my skin and he holds me like I am a precious thing. I touch him like I’ve wanted to for weeks and I kiss him like I won’t have the chance to again for a long time. I let myself be happy, in this moment, with the knowledge that it won’t last. But he’s smiling again and he adores me and I adore him and even these moments, few and far between as they are, are more than I ever thought I would get and I savour them, knowing that I will be here with him still when they are over.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading!!! Look forward to at least one other snowbaz fic from me in the future, possibly more!
> 
> My tumblr is cacaesthesia.tumblr.com if you'd like to talk to me about Carry On because I still have SO MANY THOUGHTS AND FEELINGS ABOUT IT!!


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